


Strictly Business

by milverton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Friends With Benefits, Gay Bar, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milverton/pseuds/milverton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John try being "friends with benefits." It's nice, for a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was posted originally at FF.net about a year or so ago, and I thought it was about time I brought it over here (with touch-ups). Inspired by that horrendous yet surprisingly enjoyable film "Friends With Benefits" with Mila Kunis and Justin Timberlake.

 

 

 

"Why don't we have sex."

 John _nearly_ drops his mug full of steaming-hot tea, but he's so well-versed in being shocked by Sherlock whilst in the process of tea-making and tea-drinking that he adeptly averts the possible disaster of steaming-hot liquid searing through his thin pyjama cloth.

 

 

"Right. Good one, Sherlock. You almost got me there."

"This is not an attempt at humour, John."

John shakes his head, smiling disbelievingly into his mug as he takes a sip of tea.

"I'm merely being pragmatic." 

John exits the kitchen, shuffling into the sitting room where Sherlock stares at him placidly from his languorous position on the sofa. He can't be serious. "You're not serious," John articulates with a crooked smile.

Sherlock huffs, offended, and throttles himself off the sofa. Sherlock moves so quickly and is in his personal space so entirely that John has to take a step back. John raises an inquisitive brow as Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You just broke up with...Mallory? Marina? Melis—"

"Mary. Her name's Mary," John supplies abruptly.

Sherlock dismisses the name with a flutter of his hand. "Doesn't matter. You were just telling me that you're completely done with relationships."

John is genuinely impressed. "How about that. You were actually listening to my rant! I should give you more credit sometimes."

Sherlock ignores him. "And all you want to do is 'get a leg over' without the messy emotional attachment. I saw you browsing through your mobile contacts earlier trying to decide which ex-girlfriend you could booty call."

John guffaws. Because,  _really._  "You did  _not_ just say booty call." The amusement lasts only until the point where John realises Sherlock knew that John desperately wanted to get laid. He didn't think he'd been that obvious. But, of course, John-Watson-Obvious is most certainly not Sherlock-Holmes-Obvious.

"But you decided it would be fruitless," Sherlock trudges on, disregarding anything John says at this point, apparently. "All of them were far too emotionally invested in you to be able to have sex again without _feelings_ getting in the way." Wrong. John's smug because Sherlock's wrong. There were two women who broke it off with him. John's about to smugly disprove Sherlock's deduction, but then Sherlock says, "Ah, yes. At least two of them broke up with you."

"Bollocks."

"So?" Sherlock says, impatient and still completely serious. John blinks owlishly then shakes his head in disbelief.

"So!" John mocks, throwing his arms in the air in exasperation. He huffs out a laugh and looks at Sherlock with wild eyes. The proposition is ludicrous really, because—"Jesus, Sherlock, are you even _attracted_ to me?"

Sherlock doesn't respond right away; he lets the silence stretch. He scans John's person with a bored gaze then mumbles something that sounded like...John's not certain but he thinks Sherlock said--

"You have well-trimmed cuticles."

John gives him a look. "…really."

"Eyes."

"Beg pardon?"

"Eyes! You have blue eyes."

"Well, I never. Thank god you're a detective."

"They're, um," he clears his throat, "Nice." Sherlock looks at him earnestly, patient.

That merits two eyebrow-raises from John.

Sherlock's completely serious. He's not taking the piss. Does he really think John has nice eyes, or is it a ploy? Not that it'd be a very effective ploy. Saying one has nice eyes doesn't exactly get one's bones jumped.

Sherlock's too unreadable and John hates it. He can read almost everyone else in this cesspool of a city, but Sherlock Holmes is the one man who hides behind twenty brick walls and obscures his feelings. Damn him and his flawless acting. Damn him and his perfected art of stoicism.

John shakes his head vehemently. "It's a really bad idea. The absolute worst idea. Ever." It could ruin everything between them as friends. John's not sure he'd want to risk that.

Sherlock gives him that look that screams _how fucking daft are you?_  "No, it's really not. It's perfectly practical. I'm emotionally barren and you're bored with _feelings_ and the like. We'll both benefit physically and we don't have to worry about it mucking up our…this...the, uh, relationship we have now because, well, there won't be any extraneous _feelings,_ " he wrinkles his nose, "involved and we shall remain…the same as we are."

John grimaces. "I don't know, Sherlock. I just...I don't want what we have now to be completely ruined, you know?" 

"This is strictly business, John. A business proposition. It has nothing to do with our current relationship. If anything, it will enhance it." Sherlock says softly, sincerely.

John considers this. Sherlock does have a point. Points. Though, when does he not? That man could convince a criminal he was on his side (he has). John clears his throat and looks Sherlock up and down and comes to a quick conclusion.

He's not exactly getting a bad deal here.

John scrubs a hand down his face. "Christ, Sherlock. Last time I had sex with a bloke was, oh, two whole decades ago."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It's just like—"

"—riding a bike. Yeah, yeah. God, I hate when people say that." John's tea has gone cold so he places the mug down onto the sidetable. He stands and looks up at the ceiling for a meditative moment. This could take his mind off Mary, that's for sure. It could do a lot of things to his mind, actually.

No it can't. John's obviously already insane.

To hell with everything—to sanity, to dignity, to relationships—John's going to fuck his best friend tonight. John spreads out his palms and holds up his arms in (not a considerably painful) defeat. "Why the hell not?" He pushes an accusing finger into Sherlock's chest. "You better not get mushy on me."

Sherlock scoffs. "John, please. Have you met me?"

John places his hand back at his side and shrugs. "Good point. Fine. Let's do it, then."

Sherlock brightens, looks at John like he's suddenly become brilliant. "My bedroom."

* * *

 

When they start disrobing, John realises he should probably warn Sherlock about a few things. "Oh, um, just so you know. I'm, ah, I like dirty talk. Sometimes, not always, it just slips out. It's a compulsion or something."

"Yes, I figured," Sherlock says while undoing the last button of his shirt and removing it to reveal an expanse of lithe paleness, which John openly admires. Sherlock drapes the shirt over his chair and starts on his trousers.

John blinks, returning to reality. "How—"

"Army. Obvious. Something you've just never grown out of. I pull things."

"Beg pardon?" John says, neatly folding his jeans onto Sherlock's desktop. He pulls his t-shirt over his head as Sherlock speaks.

"I. pull. things," Sherlock says, sounding annoyed at repeating himself no doubt. "Hair. Skin. Whenever I get fucked, I need to hold onto a bit of the person."

John clears his throat and cracks his neck side to side. He's definitely not nervous. "Righto." After a beat, he pulls down his pants. When he looks up, Sherlock's already completely and unselfconsciously nude, arms crossed over his chest.

Sherlock examines John's cock for what feels like a long, highly uncomfortable, judgmental time until he shrugs his bony shoulders, resigned. "Acceptable."

John purses his lips. He's not going to get offended by the person he's about to have sex with. The person who is Sherlock, his best friend. Sherlock. He flicks his gaze down at Sherlock's groin, then up and nods with approval, evening the score. "Yeah, I can work with that."

Sherlock collides into him and pushes him onto the bed so that he's supine. John is shocked into submission for a moment; who knew the man had so much strength?

Sherlock crawls over him and John's hands immediately gravitate to Sherlock's arse as Sherlock's soft, hungry lips engulf his own. John pulls him close, so close and their cocks rub together in sweet friction and it turns on a switch in John. "Nice, plump arse. Can't wait to fuck it 'til it's raw." John digs his nails into Sherlock's bum with fervour to be true to his word, causing Sherlock to hiss.

As John moves his hands up to Sherlock's back, he realises how smooth Sherlock is. John bets that's why they're always out of milk, because Sherlock bathes in the bloody stuff.

Sherlock slithers down John's body, licks his lips, and eases his mouths onto John's  _acceptable_  length. "Oh, yeah," John grits out.

Sherlock's pink lips slide gracefully back and forth around John's now-hard cock. Sherlock's mouth is fucking heart-shaped, damn him, and glistening around his cock. He looks very concentrated, eyebrows knitted together, like the solution to a case would depend on sucking John's cock.

When Sherlock pulls off and grabs John's shaft, pumping it as he leans over and flicks his tongue at the tip, John has to look at the ceiling so he doesn't come right then and there from the sight. John feels Sherlock drag his saliva-slicked lips down his length, then takes him in his mouth again, leaving John to cry— _more, deeper_. _Let me fuck your dirty, gorgeous mouth until you gag_ —but, unfortunately, Sherlock stops.

John looks back down just in time to see Sherlock's tongue lap up the pre-cum on his lower lip. John gapes at him, breathing heavily, says, "You kinky fuck," pulls Sherlock up toward his face, flips their positions and leans in to bite at Sherlock's cheekbones, because he's always had a desire to touch them, so why not with his teeth? He bites the left one, then the right, then nips at his top lip, on the centre of the Cupid's Bow. Perhaps he likes Sherlock's lips more than he'd like to admit. John travels down Sherlock's arm with kisses, chest and protruding hip bone, until he reaches Sherlock's cock. He grabs it and strokes indulgently, slowly, then tugs playfully at the balls. He looks up to watch variants of enjoyment pass through Sherlock's face. It's so—

"Fucking beautiful, god. I want you to do more than look like that. I want you to scream like you're. Like you're. Um." John's hand stills in place as he blanks.

"Oh for god's sake. Just get on with it," Sherlock demands.

"Right." John reaches over to grab a condom packet from Sherlock's sidetable and sheaths his cock with the condom, feeling a bit dejected.

Sherlock tuts. "Come off it."

"What?" John answers petulantly. 

"You couldn't think of anything to say so now you're embarrassed."

John doesn't look up, studiously focuses on his preparation. "I'm fucking my best friend, who I have to see every bloody day and am not in a relationship with. I'm far past being embarrassed, Sherlock."

"Don't lie to me. I don't care. You could be singing 'God Save the Queen' and I wouldn't be bothered. I just want you to fuck me."

"That's the plan, thanks. I'm getting there." _Pushy git_. John plunges a lubed finger inside Sherlock, whose eyes go wide as he arches up into it.

"Another," Sherlock pleads. John eases another finger, then another, tickling Sherlock's insides with lively fingers. Sherlock's moaning, a rumbling purr, and fucking himself on John's fingers, grabbing onto the duvet with clawed-hands, knuckles going white, eyes shut tight. He's in bliss.

"Fucking hell." John watches, fascinated, as Sherlock descends on his fingers like they're the last morsels in a post-apocalyptic universe. "No, thank you for asking, I'm certain I wouldn't mind watching this longer but you're going to spoil all the fun."

Sherlock flings open his eyelids when John removes his fingers, and scowls. "I didn't ask you to stop!"

"No, but by the look of you it wasn't going to last very long and I wouldn't be getting much out of it. This is a mutually beneficial fling, remember?"

Sherlock grunts and pushes John away, actually shoves at his chest, hard, so he can turn to get on his hands and knees. He presents his arse, and John takes hold of it carefully and positions the head of his cock in between Sherlock's cheeks. John immediately tenses up, freezes, and something tells him what he's doing is a _bad idea_ despite the fact that he really, really wants to drive himself into Sherlock until he screams so loud it wakes up Arthur and Harry next door, who are notoriously deep-sleepers.

"You're unbearably slow," Sherlock whinges.

"And you're a big baby. Just. Wait. Give me a second."

Sherlock makes an irritated noise. "Come on!" He tries to push back but John doesn't let him.

"Shut up for just one bloody second. I need a moment."

Sherlock drops his heads between his arms and sighs frustratedly. "You know, I think I miss the dreadful dirty talk."

"I thought you didn't care!"

"Perhaps it's lower on my priorities than the act of you sticking your cock inside of me. Now is most certainly not the time to contemplate our friendship and what this will mean for it and I know you haven't done this in awhile but—" John pushes into the tightness and Sherlock shuts up instantly. Sherlock reaches back to grab a hold of the flab on John's thigh and pulls, yes, very hard indeed.

"Ow, Christ," John groans.

"I told you," Sherlock says, breathless. The grip doesn't loosen. John's sure it's going to bruise.

"Fuck," John says, moving back and forth slowly, blinking back tears of pain. He tries to focus on the spikes of pleasure-heat traveling throughout his body.

"Actually, I don't want this angle." Sherlock manages to sound haughty through staggered breaths and dislodges from John's cock. He points at the pillows. "Sit. _Now_."

John huffs out an annoyed breath and sits with his feet flat on the duvet, legs spread slightly. So he's a bossy bastard in bed and in life. Fabulous. Sherlock straddles his thighs and eases down slowly, taking John to the root.

"Fuck. Yes. God, yes. That's fucking fantastic. Ride me." John groans as Sherlock wiggles his hips a bit, testing. Sherlock reaches out, grabs John's jaw tightly and begins to fuck himself heartily on John. Sherlock's hands move to John's cheek, where he pulls at the skin.

"Fherlock."

Sherlock's not listening, his eyes are closed and he's having the time of his life on John's cock and John wishes he could be having the time of his life too, but the skin of his cheek is being pulled off his face and it hurts like hell.

"Fherlock! Jesus fuckin fhrist."

"Jooohn," Sherlock moans as he strokes himself with his free hand. Minutes later, ignoring John's constant protests, Sherlock comes with a shudder, removes himself from John, rolling over and closing his eyes. John looks down at Sherlock, slack-expressioned Sherlock, in annoyed atonishment.

"You know what I learned today? I don't have a cheek-pulling fetish," John says, his cock still very hard and unsatisfied.

"Oops," Sherlock says, but it doesn't sound very apologetic. Sherlock crawls atop him like a cat and takes John in his hand, stroking, staring John directly in the eye. That just about does it. John's brain short-circuits and he forgets about everything else but this moment and soon he's coming over Sherlock's glorious, wonderful, beautiful hand.

Sherlock's put on his robe by the time John comes back to reality, sitting in a chair across the room, watching John with curiosity, his knees tucked up into his chest.

"Uh. What are you doing?" John asks, closing his legs, suddenly feeling very exposed. 

"What do you think I'm doing? Thinking."

"'Bout how good a shag I am?" John says, grinning, getting off the bed to gather his clothes. He feels really good. He'd needed a good shag. He removes the soiled condom and throws it in the bin.

"About how many days a week we should do this and in what manner since I was satisfied by the results. What do you say I make a chart?"

John rolls his eyes. "Sure, of course. Hang it up on the fridge. So everyone who walks into our flat can have a nice gander at our perfectly scheduled sex lives."

"I don't appreciate your sarcasm."

"Sherlock, sex isn't supposed to be so calculated."

"I'd prefer if we knew what we were going to do before we did it, to make things more enjoyable. Though, now that you're over your self-doubt, things will undoubtedly proceed more efficiently."

Of course Sherlock wouldn't understand the implications of having sex with his best friend. It's not something people usually do. It's not something John ever thought he would feel comfortable with. Despite himself, he really did enjoy it, and he doesn't have to worry about lavishing Sherlock with affections afterwords, beforehand... _ever_.

...But, surely, nothing will change between them. They can do this. They will carry on as they normally have save for the added bonus of sex.

"I'd rather like to use the riding crop next time," Sherlock says, thoughtful. John looks at the maddening, sex-starved, actually quite attractive, bossy man and smiles manically.

There's no turning back now.

"Only if I get to use it on you."

* * *

 

It's a particularly gruesome scene today. The corpse of interest lies face-down beside a grimy alleyway wall, the back of the head completely mutilated, bits of brain hardened on the wall beside it. The smell is not very pleasant. 

In other words, it's just another typical day.

Sherlock gets straight to work, portable magnifying glass in tow, crouching and doing his dance around the corpse as he is wont to do. John hangs back with Lestrade and watches.

After ten minutes, Sherlock takes off his coat, strides over to John, drops it in his arms and returns to the corpse. John's frowning down at the new, unwanted material in his arms.

"Does that come with your job description? Colleague, blogger, and coat-rack?" Lestrade says with a ridiculously smug grin. 

John squares his shoulders, glaring at the back of Sherlock's head. "I wonder how he'd like it if I accidentally dropped this on the  _dirty, blood-soaked ground_." Sherlock would go bonkers if his precious coat were to be dirtied up and John loves that Sherlock's unwittingly just given him the power to make him go bonkers.

Sherlock whips his head in John's direction and growls, "I will come after you, John Watson, if you dare do such a thing."

Lestrade bursts out laughing at Sherlock's heavy-handed reaction. John grins then makes a comically pained expression and wobbles his knees. "Oh, my. Oh, no. This is so heavy…" John slowly lowers the coat until the hanging sleeves are nearly kissing the ground.

"John," Sherlock warns, standing up straight, attention intensely fixated on John.

"I don't think I can last holding it. It's slipping, slipping, ah, I'm too weak. Fragile--"

The sleeve is almost about touch the ground then, suddenly, it's not. Sherlock's crushing his body against John, trapping the coat in between them. Sherlock says, low and guttural, "don't" and the sound reverberates from John's toes to his head.

John's half bent, so he straightens up, rubs up against Sherlock subtly. John gulps and the whole thing is, frankly, getting him more excited than it should.

"Oi, Sherlock! He's just mucking around. Don't get your knickers in a bunch," Lestrade says, maybe, because John's not completely paying attention and, instead, his mouth's hanging open slightly and he's looking up at Sherlock, hypnotised.

Sherlock licks his lips slowly. John watches the tongue skim over and glisten the pink, plump flesh, and reflects on how wonderful they feel on him, all over him, and he wants to claim them right here and now, bite them, suck them, lick them to show his gratitude for the endeavors they've taken to please him. John takes a step back and it's like pulling teeth. Sherlock's wearing a tiny smirk and he steps back too, then turns around sharply and struts back to the corpse and, oh, he's milking it, knows they haven't had sex in nearly 36 hours and John's been suffering from withdrawal. John admits it's a nice sight to watch and tries very, very hard to block away the ensuing reminisces he has with that part of Sherlock's body.

John's not sure how long exactly he's floating but soon he grounds himself back to reality. John secretly praises the gods and curses Sherlock for the coat and uses it to cover himself, just in case. John wrenches his gaze from Sherlock to Lestrade, who immediately looks away, like he has a secret to hide, and walks over to have a chat with Sally.

When John looks back, Sherlock is heading toward him with an absolutely sinister smirk. When Sherlock is near John, his gaze flicks down then back up. He doesn't say anything. John doesn't want to speak first, doesn't want to give Sherlock the satisfaction but he can't help blurting, "You wanted to get me riled up, you bastard."

"No. Not entirely. I also wanted to ensure that you remained holding the coat."

John doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Jesus Christ. You really are an absolute prick, you know that?"

"I think I've been honoured with that title before, yes." Sherlock quirks his lips. "Perhaps I can show you how sorry I am back at the flat? The chart says that yesterday was your day and we're behind schedule."

All irritation suddenly forgotten, John can't say the words 'yes, please' faster.

* * *

 

John and Sherlock have been in their "agreement" for almost four weeks now and John's starting to lose his grip.

He can't stop  _touching_ and  _looking._

He and Sherlock were in Lestrade's office earlier and John had rested his hand on Sherlock's thigh without even thinking about it. When they left Angelo's for lunch, John had put his hand on the small of Sherlock's back, perhaps even lower (but not that low), and  _escorted_  him out. When they were taking the very crowded Tube (to Sherlock's dismay), John couldn't stop staring at Sherlock's delicate (yet devious) hands, wrapped around the pole. Hell, when they went up the stairs just now, John couldn't help watching the hypnotic sway of Sherlock's hips and the shift of his buttocks all the way into their sitting room.

John can't help himself. He's never done this before and he doesn't know when is too much.

John wonders if he's too obvious, if Sherlock's noticed his ogling, he probably has, what does he not notice, and if he feels offended or embarrassed or if he ever feels  _anything_ —

"It's fine," Sherlock comments amusedly from behind his laptop, as if he's inside John's mind at this very moment.

"Hm?"

"Don't fret. You should be glad you have healthy amounts of testosterone."

"Right, yeah, thanks." John sighs and stares into his cup of tea like it holds the answers to his musings.

John tries to forget about it but, instead, starts to wonder if Sherlock feel as John does.

Sherlock has so much control except when he doesn't need to have control.

When John wants sex that doesn't mean Sherlock necessarily wants sex at that moment too and John can't help but obsess over his  _want_. When Sherlock wants sex and John doesn't, well, Sherlock seems as cool as a cucumber. Or is it just an act?

John's never caught  _Sherlock_  looking at him with googly-eyes or lingering a bit longer with his touches. In fact, Sherlock's been more distant than usual, lately. But it's hard to measure levels of distance with Sherlock.

John suddenly feels incredibly self-conscious but bats that feeling aside. Perhaps he's over thinking it. He's not suppose to feel anything, even self-consciousness, it's in the metaphysical contract he and Sherlock had made. He's suppose to just enjoy and carry on _._

So, he does. Well, tries.

* * *

 

A week later, Sherlock and John end up in a swanky Edinburgh hotel funded by the British Government after concluding a case there.

"I'm genuinely afraid to ask how much this place costs," John says as Sherlock steps out of the bathroom.

"I haven't a clue, anyway. Mycroft did this all on his own."

"Naturally, you didn't want to be involved."

"Naturally," Sherlock agrees.

John flops onto the soft, Queen-sized bed. He stretches and makes a satisfied noise. They are booked for two more days at the hotel and John could definitely spend all of his time in this gloriously comfortable bed.

"Wine?" Sherlock asks, heading to the wine rack and gathering two glasses. He knows John too well to know he wouldn't deny a glass of high-end wine. What self-respecting person would, anyway?

"That'd be lovely, thanks."

After Sherlock's poured the rosy-coloured wine in both glasses, he hands John's glass over, shakes his own so that the liquid swirls on the inside, sniffs and sips it daintily. It's a blissful quiet that follows until John interrupts.

"So. Harry's birthday is next weekend."

"Well isn't that nice?" Sherlock says and the lilt of his voice is mocking. His attitude doesn't faze John, not anymore, not after all this time.

"I was wondering if you could go with me to the surprise party her friends are hosting? I honestly don't think I can bear it alone."

Sherlock turns up his nose and says, "I don't think I could bear  _it_." He takes another drink.

John rolls his eyes, slams his glass onto the side table, rolls onto his side, swings a leg over Sherlock's knees and sits there and gives Sherlock a pleading look. "Come on, Sherlock.  _Please_."

Sherlock raises a singular brow and says coldly, "Begging? Really, John?"

"She's my sister whether I like it or not. Uh, I'm pretty sure you can sympathise with that sentiment? I need to go. Need to show her I'm trying."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I'll just sulk the entire time." At least he's honest.

"I'll let you fuck me tonight if you say yes." John hasn't been on the bottom, ever, actually, so he's been unsure how he'd take it. If he'd even like it. He wasn't prepared to do it when Sherlock asked him the other week, but now he's ready. He trusts Sherlock now.

"You're bartering accompaniment to your sister's birthday party with sex," Sherlock says with a smirk, placing down his wineglass and sounding extraordinarily more interested.

"It's looks like we've reached that point, haven't we? It's a milestone in every relationship." Sherlock's lip twitches at the word. John sputters, "I didn't mean that. It's just a joke, I don't actually think we're-"

Sherlock holds up a hand to silence John. John hates that he obliges, but he's relieved that it's stopped him from rambling on like a clod. "All right."

"All right?"

Sherlock reaches over and undoes John's zip. "I can't really make do with all this clothes you have on."

"Oh," John exhales and curses himself. "Yeah, that'd be a problem, wouldn't it?" John says, rolling off Sherlock, and wiggling out of his jeans. When John's completely stripped he sits against the bed frame, takes himself in his hand and strokes as he watches Sherlock disrobe from underneath hooded eyes. Sherlock's an aesthetics's dream, okay, fine, apparently John's dream, all angles and muscle and pale skin and limbs that stretch for miles and violinist hands, too long and spindly and skilled and a perfectly round bottom.

Sherlock crawls onto the bed, and strokes himself with lube until he's erect then settles in between John's spread legs. John's breath is laboured as he watches the lube go into Sherlock's hands. He watches Sherlock's hands make the slow travel to the destination between his thighs and, god, he wishes he'd stop being nervous. He holds his breath.

"I'll go slow," Sherlock assures, slipping in a finger. John lets out his breath. It's not entirely comfortable and he closes his eyes as if to shut out the bits of pain. It's endearing how  _caring_ Sherlock's being about this, not just trudging through. "Just relax," Sherlock looks concentrated, like he's performing an important experiment in John's arse, and he crooks his finger, hitting John's prostate and sending a lightning bolt of pleasure up John's spine.

"Fuck. Okay. Yes. You win. That's fucking good."

Sherlock retreats, and hooks each of John's legs over his shoulders and stares down, fascinated, at his own cock-head pressed ever-so lightly against John's entrance.

John holds his breath again.

"Ready?"

"Yeah," John whispers.

Sherlock breeches him, in, in, in and it feels awkward and too too full and strange at first, but after Sherlock gets his groove and John gets used to it, it begins to feel good, not as good as being on the other side but it's still bloody good.

Sherlock's inside him and it's a strange new world and John feels his heart flutter with the thrill of it all.

Sherlock's still watching his cock slide into and out of John, over and over and over, with sparkling, wide eyes and his hands are gripping the side of John's thighs very, very tightly. John thinks he's immune to the pain from Sherlock's pulling-shtick by now.

Sherlock's still not looking at him as he grunts and flutters his eyelashes and lets his mouth hang open in a perfect 'o' and thrusts, riding the waves of his orgasm. John remembers the first time they had sex, Sherlock had looked him directly in the eye while he brought him off. Sherlock had been more vocal, more needy. As they progressed in their "agreement" Sherlock had gradually stopped looking at John, stopped being so vocal and needy. John wasn't sure he understood why.

John thoughts swirl away into a grey mix as he feels his own orgasm creeping up on him. Sherlock's almost about to explode, so John says, low, "Yeah, come on. Come inside me. Fill me up. Do it."

Sherlock comes with an elongated, indulgent moan, shaking a bit. When he's calmed he drops his head and pulls out, cringing. John's leaking with precum already so he strokes himself a few times until he comes over his hand. For a moment after, he just lies there, melting into the mattress. Reluctantly, John gets up to wash his hands and when he returns Sherlock's already tucked himself under the covers.

"Shower?"

"Tomorrow," Sherlock mumbles into the pillow.

John can't help but agree. He climbs into the bed, not bothering to clothe himself, and settles behind Sherlock. He's not touching but there's barely any space between them and John's basking in the warmth and post-coital glow that radiates from Sherlock's body. Sherlock twitches a bit. John traces his finger down Sherlock's spine and says, "Good night, then."

"Good night," Sherlock says at a near whisper.

John smiles, and drifts off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're actually lovely, you know that? I never thought I'd say that about you. Lovely. Ha. What a strange word to describe Sherlock bloody Holmes..."

Harry's surprise birthday party is being held at a mid-18th century styled pub in Islington. Harry's friends had reserved a table since they knew it'd be absolutely packed on a Friday night (and it is). John thinks the idea of a pub for a surprise party is brilliant. It goes along with Sherlock's catchline(s) (one of many)--"hiding in plain sight." Harry will never expect it.

John snakes through the crowd, letting Sherlock fend for himself, until he sees a group of bright-eyed, middle-aged women sitting at a roundtable. John only knows one of them, Clara, Harry's ex. She's a short, blonde-haired blue-eyed, freckled...firecracker. John finds her to be energetic to the point where you want to curl up in a ball and die because she sucks the life out of you. He'd been really surprised and impressed Harry and Clara had kept in touch. Harry wasn't one to stay friendly with exes. John secretly wished they hadn't.

John is going to keep an open mind tonight. Clara had assured John that Harry was  _good_  now. She'd be able to control herself and moderate her drinking. John hopes to God above it's true because Clara isn't the most trustworthy of persons.  
  
All eight eyes lock on him when he appears. "Oooh Joohn!" Clara coos, waving her hand frantically even though John's standing in front of the table. Sherlock sidles up to John.  
  
"Clara," John acknowledges. "And hello ladies," he smiles and nods politely at the other three women.  
  
Clara introduces the three mystery women. The first is Supreet, a tiny, perky Indian woman wearing a colorful, patterned headscarf and a matching dress. Next to her is Jasmine, a large Asian woman with piercing ice-blue contacts and a melodious voice. Then there is Melinda, a tall, bloody Amazonian-tall, pale-skinned, buff woman.  
  
"Ooooh your friend!" Clara nods over John's shoulder. "I--oops, I forgot his name. It was something exotic, yeah?"  
  
"Um. This is Sherlock," John says, pulling Sherlock to the forefront. Sherlock just stands there, mute, so John elbows him in the ribs.  
  
"Hello," Sherlock says to his chagrin.  
  
"Hello Sherlock," the table sings in unison. John takes the middle seat of three empty chairs. Sherlock sits beside him, next to Clara. Poor sod.  
  
"It's so, so nice of you to come, John!" Clara says in that faux-sweet, trademarked tone of hers, leaning over Sherlock. "Harry will be over the moon!"  
  
"Mm. Yeah, I hope so," John says plainly. John spares a look at Sherlock, who's staring absently over Melinda's shoulder.

"Oi, there she is!" Melinda croaks, pulling John's attention away from Sherlock.  
  
Harry bounds through the people and her mouth drops and eyes dart around conspiratorily as she approaches the table like she was expecting assassins. "Clara! You massive, throbbing prick!" Harry says affectionately.  
  
"Surprise!" Clara shouts.  
  
"She got you guys in on this too?" Harry says, addressing the three other women and ignoring John and Sherlock as she takes the empty seat beside John.  
  
"When Clara turns on the charm, you just get sucked in," Melinda says with a smirk. "You know how that is, 'course."  
  
Harry gives her a look. "Fuck you all," she says with a grin.  
  
John clears his throat. Harry turns to look at John, then gives him a nice, hard punch just below the shoulder. John rubs at the spot with a wrinkled nose because Harry sure can pack a punch. "John. I can't fucking believe you're here."  
  
"Yeah, hi to you too, Harry."  
  
Harry gives him a nudge this time and it's soft, playful and warms the cockles of John's heart to feel even a modicum of camaraderie between them.  
  
"Oh my god," Harry says excitedly, turning her attention to Sherlock. She looks like she's about to swoop down on Sherlock with her talons and feed on him. "I've been wanting to meet you for a really, really long time. But you know me and John. We're both completely stubborn and angry a lot. Usually at each other. So. Great! Hello, you!"  
  
"Charmed," is all Sherlock says.  
  
"Oh. Sir!" Supreet calls out. A waiter comes over and takes everyone's orders for food and drink.

* * *

  
  
Melinda, Supreet and Jasmine are surprisingly chill and lovely. His opinion of Harry improves a bit because of her choice of friends. Harry and the women reminisce a bit, laugh a bit, poke fun a bit, give gifts. John gives Harry a new watch, on behalf of him and Sherlock and she actually hugs him.  
  
The night is not going as badly as John had anticipated.  
  
After they finish eating Harry turns to John, looking devilishly curious, and rakes a hand through her curly blonde hair. John anticipates a lot of invasive questions. "So. John. Your boyfriend's real quiet. I thought you said in your blog he doesn't know how to shut his gob?"  
  
John doesn't even bat an eyelash, because he's so used to everyone assuming. "He's not my boyfriend, Harry."  
  
Harry rolls her eyes. "De Nile is a river in Egypt, Johnny."  
  
"You wouldn't make a good couple," Clara comments, tapping her lip with a thoughtful finger. Melinda and Supreet exchange a look. John doesn't deign the comment with an answer.   
  
"Oh, please," Jasmine says boldly, taking a meagre sip of her martini. "I think they'd be interesting. You know, when people who are in a relationship look too much alike, it freaks me out. I see it really quite often. There's some kind of fucked up psychology behind it."  
  
"I look like Clara, kind of," Harry says with a crooked grin. Clara sticks out her tongue.  
  
"In your dreams," Clara says.  
  
"Yeah, and it freaked me out!" Jasmine says, laughing.  
  
"Bastard," Harry says, throwing a crumpled napkin at Jasmine, who dodges it.  
  
"Johnny," Clara says, and John cringes inwardly because Harry's the only one who is allowed to call him that. Clara had called him that when she and Harry dated and John never had the heart to tell her not to, even if he didn't like her very much. "You know I read your blog?"  
  
"Oh?" John says, feigning care.  
  
"Blog?" Supreet asks excitedly.  
  
"Johnny keeps a blog about Sherlock's cases. For Scotland Yard." Harry leans back in her chair and stretches. "Though, It reads to me like one of those blogs where teenage girls write about their celebrity crushes."  
  
John lets out a long, exasperated sigh. "Murders. I write about murders, for god's sake, Harry."  
  
"Wait, so you're a police officer?" Melinda asks Sherlock with narrowed eyes. "I bloody hate coppers. No offence. They always have it out for me."  
  
"No. I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock says. It's the most he's said all night.  
  
"Only one in the world," John supplies proudly.  
  
"That's brilliant!" Supreet exclaims. "How much does it pay? What's the best case you've been on? Gosh, I guess I should just read the blog!"  
  
"It's essentially freelance. I don't only work with Scotland Yard. I have clients. The money doesn't matter to me much, though," Sherlock says placidly.  
  
"Well, what I was going to say," Clara says petulantly, eyeing Melinda then Supreet antagonistically for stealing her thunder, "Is that, from reading your blog, Johnny, I can completely believe that you and he aren't together. Completely! He's way out of your league." The table goes dead silent except for Harry, who hisses, "Clara!" If Harry's the one doing the scolding, then you know something is not okay. Clara continues, anyway. "He's this big genius detective and you're just a wee broken soldier scraping for an adrenaline high!"  
  
And just like that, John's back to the dark place he'd been trapped in after coming home from Afghanistan; he is worthless and Clara's right, Sherlock would never be able to love him, _never_ , Sherlock is far too good for him, far too good for the sad little soldier who is trying to relive the war in a fucked up macabre fantasy world and has nothing else to live for that's why they fuck and just fuck and do nothing else and he bloody fucking hates Clara and wishes he never came to this fucking birthday party and—  
  
"It must be hard seeing your ex-girlfriend living her life, being happier than she ever was with you. You don't know it yet, but she just recently got a new partner. Or perhaps you suspect it, and that's why you're so bitter? Aw. How selfish. Harry doesn't want to tell you because she fears you'll become too clingy and pine for her back. I can tell by the tiny bits of debris on your shoulder, your cheap, wrinkled skirt and hastily re-done makeup you've been around a construction site and fucked one of the architects against the wall in return for his services to your flat, which is falling apart because you don't have enough money to fix it up. You've been on the hunt for a higher-paying job but no one will hire you because you don't have enough work experience. Now, John is the finest man I know and I will not have you demeaning him to a 'broken soldier scraping for an adrenaline high' because he is not that, he's more than you and I will ever be."  
  
No one says anything for a long time. John looks at Sherlock in awe, blocking out everyone else's faces because they don't matter, not now, and his eyes well up and, god, why such an intrusive surge of emotion? Perhaps John's a maudlin drunk, but Sherlock is just so, entirely  _brilliant._

It's the most wonderful thing Sherlock's ever done, said about him and he feels so, so much glorious affection for the man. John's chest tightens and heart pounds loudly against his ribcage and his eyes water a bit more and he just wants to—  
  
He leans over, grabs Sherlock's face between his palms, and smothers the man with a kiss.

* * *

  
After John pulls away from the kiss he feels thoroughly drunk. Not metaphorically. He's had a bit much to drink.

His lips linger in the air for a few seconds, tingling, and he stares longingly at Sherlock's lips. John wants to kiss those lips again. Wants to eat them whole. That's all he wants right now.  
  
Even if he's drunk, he still has the decency not to do that in front of his sister.  
  
John turns to Harry, who looks stunned and amused and delighted all at once, and grimaces. "Umm," he flushes, "Happy Birthday, Harry. Think we'll be off now." John gets up and nearly trips over the chair. He tugs at Sherlock's sleeve lazily to prove his point that they'll be leaving. Sherlock obediently follows John through the crowd of pub-goers into the cold night air.  
  
"All right?" John asks Sherlock. He feels a bit dizzy.  
  
"Fine." Sherlock looks away. John thinks he's lying, he has questions, but he doesn't say anything because he's not sure the words will fall into proper places. John watches him wearily for a few seconds more, and then steps to the kerb to hail a cab.  
  
The ride is quiet on the way back to Baker Street, but John is still riding the high of the kiss. John doesn't like how quiet Sherlock is, but his chest is ready to burst with glee and he will not let Sherlock bring him down. Even though Sherlock's the one who has just brought him…up.  
  
When they get into their sitting room and remove their outer garb, Sherlock immediately starts toward his room.  
"Sherlock!" John says authoritatively. Sherlock makes an abrupt stop. He turns around to face John.

"Yes?" Sherlock barks.  
  
John strides forward, reaches out to stroke Sherlock's arm and grips Sherlock's bicep. "Don't understand why you're acting like this."  
  
"Acting like what?" Sherlock says coldly, flicking his gaze from John's hand on his arm to John's face.  
  
"Acting…acting like. I don't know. Like you hate me?" It's a juvenile thing to say, John knows, but how could Sherlock be acting so sulky after what he'd said about John? After the wonderful things he'd said about John? He wants to get closer to Sherlock and does so gracelessly, stumbling forward, bracing his hand on Sherlock's chest to steady himself. He keeps his hand there as Sherlock talks, and the rumble of Sherlock's voice reverberates deliciously throughout his body.  
  
"I could never hate you, John."  
  
John looks up, his eyes soft and gleaming like a desperate child yearning for more adulation. "Can I kiss you again?"  
  
Sherlock sighs and leans away. "You're drunk."  
  
"Did you really mean what you said back there?" John blurts, smoothing his palm across Sherlock's chest which is warm, hard and familiar.  
  
"If I hadn't meant it I wouldn't have said it."  
  
John grins. "You're actually lovely, you know that? I never thought I'd say that about you. Lovely. Ha. What a strange word to describe Sherlock bloody Holmes," John thinks out loud.  
  
Sherlock looks somewhere over John's head. "Mm."  
  
"Going to bed?" John asks suddenly.  
  
"That's what it looks like, doesn't it."  
  
John pokes a finger into Sherlock's chest. "Fantastic. Let's go then," John says joyfully. "Back in a sec, okay? Wait for me, okay? Good." John doesn't leave right away because he feels really good standing this close to Sherlock. It's brilliant how a man of such frigid demeanor could radiate such exuberant warmth.  
  
John drags his finger up and watches its path with fascination, continues up Sherlock's black button-down shirt, until he gets to the exposed V of pale skin. The contrast of the shirt withis skin is breathtaking, John thinks. John looks up but Sherlock's not looking at him, apparently preoccupied with something in the next room. He wants to kiss Sherlock so badly. John leans in and places a wet kiss near the dip of the V. Sherlock steps back.  
  
John smiles, satisfied, turns and makes his way to the stairs. He climbs the stairs quickly, shuffles into his room to change into an old T-shirt and pyjama trousers. He brushes his teeth after accidentally bumping into the pointy-end of the sink and meets Sherlock in his room.  
  
Sherlock's sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching John carefully. He's changed into his dressing gown and loose, matching grey pyjamas.  
  
"You want to  _sleep_  here," Sherlock says slowly.  
  
John blinks. He'd have thought that much was obvious. Especially for Sherlock. The room does a quick turn. "Ummmm. Yeah?"  
  
"You want to  _only sleep_  here," Sherlock persists.  
  
"For fuck's sake, Sherlock," John says, climbing onto the bed. "Have you finally cracked? Can you, you, scoot over?"  
  
"You should sleep in your own bed."  
  
"Make me," John says, giggling, as he pushes Sherlock over, gets under the covers, turns on his side and looks up at Sherlock through narrowed eyes. Sherlock glances at him then looks at the wall.  
  
"He-ey," John says softly as the room spins. He props his head on his hand and places his other hand on the top of Sherlock's knee. "You're really great, you know."  
  
"So you've said."  
  
John begins to rub his hand up to Sherlock's thigh. His pyjamas trousers are cottony thin. "You're quite… magnificent, you know? Completely."  
  
Sherlock tuts. "John. I don't think—"  
  
"I can't begin to think how lucky I am."  
  
"What?" Sherlock asks, eyes wide, attention now completely rapt on John. Finally.  
  
"You're just. You're just fantastic. Thank you, Sher…lock," John says with a crooked smile, squeezing Sherlock's thigh then letting go. He grabs a pillow and positions it under his head, nuzzles into it, and shuts his eyes. "Lights?" The lights go out promptly. "Gooood night, you."  
  
Sherlock doesn't hear a response, but John falls asleep instantly with a smile on his face.

* * *

  
  
The next morning John wakes up with a headache and an empty space beside him. John feels the pillow beside him and it's cool, so that means Sherlock's been up for awhile now. John looks at the clock. It's 11:00 am.  
  
John yawns and pushes himself out of the bed reluctantly, and pads downstairs. Sherlock's not anywhere in sight. He fills the kettle up with water, sets it on the stove, turns on the heat, folds his arms across his chest and waits.  
  
John watches the blue of the fire flicker beneath the kettle. His head is pounding. He misses Sherlock. He misses him even though he hadn't been gone long. Misses him even though John slept in the same bed as him last night.  
  
John wishes Sherlock hadn't up and left without telling him where he was going because John would have gladly woken up to follow. He would always follow.  
  
The kettle whistles and pulls him out of his thoughts. He pours the boiling water into a mug, adds a tea bag and sugar, stirs it, and sets it down on the kitchen table. He gets out his mobile and texts Sherlock.  
  
_Where are you?_  
  
John doesn't get a text back immediately and he starts to worry. He tries calling Sherlock, but to no avail.  
  
Two hours later, just as he's about to call Sherlock for the umpteenth time, the door slams downstairs and Sherlock's familiar tread is heard.  
  
Sherlock simply nods at John in acknowledgment and hangs up his coat and scarf.  
  
"Hey," John says, bemused. "Where've you been?"  
  
"Scotland Yard," Sherlock replies icily.  
  
If words could sting. "Oh. Easy one, then?" Why hadn't Sherlock asked him to come? There had to be a reason. It was probably an easy case that Sherlock was able to solve in just a few hours.  
  
"Indeed," is all Sherlock says and heads toward his room. Five minutes later he appears, clad in his pyjamas and dressing gown. It's only 2 PM.

Sherlock flops onto the sofa.  
  
"You all right?" John asks, as he takes a seat across from sulky-Sherlock-on-the-sofa.  
  
"Fine," Sherlock says bitingly.  
  
John clenches his teeth, losing his patience. "You're obviously not fine."  
  
"Some silence would be marvelous right now. I'm tired," Sherlock says, turning away so that his back is facing John.  
  
"Sherlock?" John says, stunned.  
  
Sherlock looks over his shoulder. "Problem?"  
  
John shifts uncomfortably in his seat, takes a deep breath. "Is this, for some absolutely ridiculous reason, about last night?"  
  
Sherlock says mockingly, "Oh. You remember last night?"  
  
"I don't understand," John says, his blood beginning to boil, "how you possibly could be angry about last night. We didn't do anything."  
  
"Precisely! Yes!" Sherlock yells into the sofa cushion. Since it's muffled, it loses its effect.  
  
"Sherlock." John clenches and unclenches his hands. He doesn't want this to escalate. He mustn't allow it to escalate. "Can you just talk to me? Like a normal human being. Face to face. Instead of giving me your bloody back."  
  
Sherlock suddenly bolts off the sofa. "You want to talk? Fine. Brilliant. Let's talk." Sherlock paces between the coffee table and sofa until he halts to throw a glare at John. "I thought you were different, John. I thought you had more control. You broke our contract."  
  
"What the hell are talking about?" John says, caught off-guard.  
  
"You know what you said to me yesterday? 'I can't begin to think how lucky I am.'"  
  
John sputters, "I was drunk, Sherlock. I didn't mean—"  
  
"I should have listened to you. It was a bad idea. Normal people can't detach emotion from sex. You're just like everyone else."  
  
John feels like he's been punched in the gut. "That's not what you said last night. To Clara."  
  
"It was a bad idea. You were right. We should forget this ever happened between us," Sherlock says, ignoring John's comment. "I will delete it."  
  
John's anger comes out, full force, and he yells, "You can't just delete it, Sherlock!"  
  
Sherlock stands up straighter, looks down his nose at John. "Yes. I can."  
  
"Jesus fuck," John says, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Sherlock begins to pace again. "I don't do relationships, John. At all. Never will. The sex was really good while it lasted and I'll mourn the loss of it, but we cannot continue if you are…if you have feelings for me. You have feelings for me, yes? You shouldn't. I want to hear you say it. Then our contract will be completely rescinded and we can go on as usual. You are going to need to go on as usual." Sherlock stops abruptly to stare daggers at John. He's waiting for a response.  
  
John looks away. Did he have any feelings for Sherlock Holmes? He wasn't supposed to. But he did, didn't he? How could he have let this happen? How could he have feelings for this cold, calculative, machine-of-a-man? Who treated sex like a business agreement? Who believed it was just _that easy_ to throw away feelings? Who treated John's feelings like they were nothing?  
  
Sex by itself never worked. Historically, it's never worked. So, yes, John wanted Sherlock . He didn't just want his body, he wanted everything.  
  
But Sherlock wanted nothing. So. There was only one thing to do.  
  
John shakes his head, not believing the words that spill from his mouth. "I think. I think I should go, then."  
  
Sherlock's eyes widen. "What?"  
  
John rises from his seat. He feels numb. "Yeah. I think I'll go. Think it's best."  
  
Sherlock's fiery demeanor has completely softened now. "That's, um, not what I intended."  
  
"Well isn't that a shame?" John retorts, his fury returning. His heart is thrumming in his chest. It hurts to look at Sherlock. "Maybe Sarah will let me hang around for awhile. Or Emily. Or Kayla." Emily and Kayla did not want any form of relationship with John, since they were the ones who'd broken it off. And he and Sarah had a mutual agreement. Wouldn't want to subject someone to unrequited feelings!  
  
"John," Sherlock says pleadingly. He's stepping closer. John does the same, as if Sherlock's pulling him in with invisible strings. He stops himself.  
  
"Right, yes. Sorry. I'm supposed to say the words to make this official. I have feelings for you Sherlock Holmes." I want your _everything_ , he doesn't say. "Pleasure doing business with you." John holds out his hand. Sherlock flicks a look down at his hand, then looks back to John's face, darts his eyes around it helplessly. There's nothing left for Sherlock to read. John's made up his mind.  
  
Sherlock doesn't shake his hand, and John's arm is getting tired. He lowers his arm, grabs his mobile, walks upstairs to his room and scrolls through his contacts until he finds Sarah's number. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't what? You like that word. Can you not be so cryptic? I can barely understand myself right now let alone you."

It turns out that Sarah is having her sisters over for the month, so John cannot impose. He calls Emily and she happily agrees to let him stay over for "as long as you like, cutie." Thank god John had parted with all of his exes as friends. Staying with Mike would have been far too awkward since he's married with children, and Greg, well, John thought it'd be best to stay with someone who wasn't friends with Sherlock. Better yet if they didn't even know him.

He's to head over to Emily's tomorrow morning. After getting off the call with Emily, John gathers his necessities and neatly places it all into his old OTC duffel bag, then sits on the edge of the bed and stares at himself in the mirror.  
  
Right. What is he supposed to do for the next few hours? He can't just stay in his room in hopes of avoiding Sherlock.  
  
Oh yes he can. His laptop's here after all. There's some reading too.  
  
John forces himself to fall asleep early, around 9, and wakes up at 7 in the morning. He changes out of his pyjamas into jeans and a button-down then carefully descends the stairs, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.  
  
Sherlock's awake and sitting on the floor of the sitting room looking utterly debauched, his hair and clothes are mussed, and he's rifling through dusty books and outdated newspapers. It looks like he's broken out the cold cases. When Sherlock breaks out the cold cases John knows he's desperate for preoccupation.  
  
But John doesn't care. He really doesn't.  
  
Sherlock does not look at him and John doesn't say a word as he sets down the duffel bag before going into the bathroom to brush his teeth, wash his face and relieve himself. He returns to the sitting room and Sherlock is still resolutely not looking at him. John picks up the duffel bag, puts the strap over his shoulder, spares Sherlock one glance then turns to the door.  
  
"John," Sherlock says just as John's foot is about to move forward. Sherlock voice sounds so far away. "Don't." The singular word is said softly, nearly pleadingly.  
  
John inhales sharply and shakes his head. He doesn't turn around; he speaks to the door with a hard-set frown. "I need to get away for awhile. I don't know when I'll be back, so don't wait up for me." John doesn't wait for Sherlock's response. He just continues forward, flies down the stairs, then hails a cab to Emily's.

* * *

  
"Oh, angel, tell me what happened. You only glossed through it over the phone," Emily says, later, when John's settled and they are sitting on the sofa together. John looks up from his lap to Emily, whose face is scrunched up in concern. Emily has a moon-shaped face with long, red hair and green eyes that perpetually seem to glitter with joy. She's Southern American, so the soft, comforting Southern accent does wonders to enforce her already generous personality.  
  
John tells her everything, from start to finish, and he feels a weight lifted off him at the end of it. Emily doesn't do anything for a moment when he's stopped ranting then lunges forward and takes John in a strong embrace. It surprises John and he doesn't hug back, just lets the life be squeezed out of him. She releases him, looks him up and down then nods sagely. "You know what you need?"  
  
"Someone to give me a nice slap for being such a bloody idiot?"  
  
Emily grins. "No, silly man. You need a night of fun."  
  
"Fun," John repeats the word blandly, and it feels foreign on his lips.  
  
"Yeah, darlin'. Tomorrow night we're gonna go dancin'!"  
  
"That's not going to help." John doesn't think that's a viable way to solve his problems. At all.  
  
"Hush. It will. Trust me. Okay?"  
  
John shrugs and sighs. "Okay."

* * *

  
  
John leaves work and gets to Emily's, showers, and waits. And waits. And waits. Emily is supposed to be home from work by 5 and they're supposed to go to dinner then "go dancin'!" afterwards. It's 5:30. John calls her and she doesn't answer. Maybe she got stuck at work? Finally, near 6:00, the door opens and Emily steps into the flat.  
  
John stands up. "All right?"  
  
Emily looks uncharacteristically nervous. "Just--I just got held up at work, sugar. I'm sorry. I couldn't--I'm sorry I didn't call." She places down her purse then forces a smile at John. It worries him. The smile is loaded with things unsaid. "I'm perfectly fine. I'm gonna change into something a bit more dance-y then we can head on out, okay."

John watches her carefully. She claps her hands together, and the usual brightness returns to her eyes. She gives John an appraisingly look. "My my, you clean up real good. You're gonna break some hearts tonight."

* * *

  
" _Fire_. Why does that sound familiar?" John asks Emily as they step out of the cab and walk toward the entrance of  _Fire._  
  
"You tell me," Emily says jovially as her stilettos click clack on the pavement. John feels impossibly tiny next to Emily, much like he feels when he's with Sherlock. He grimaces. Even _thinking_ of Sherlock is terrible. 

Once they get inside the techno blares and the neon lights blind and John remembers why it's so familiar. Harry had dragged him here once, before he was deployed. It was back when he and Harry were actually chummy.   
  
John snakes an arm around Emily's waist, pulls her close, touches his mouth to her ear. "This is a gay club."  
  
Emily laughs heartily and says to him, "You know, I always had a feeling you were bisexual when we were dating."  
  
John's sighs long-sufferingly and doesn't bother to put up a fight about his sexuality, which is an exhausting and rather hot topic of conversation with everyone he knows. Emily just laughs and gives him a pat on the shoulder. They sit at the bar and Emily orders a lager for John and a Guinness for herself. She remembered what he likes. Emily is really such a wonderful friend. Why couldn't she have liked him a bit more when they were dating? Where did John go wrong? He wouldn't be in this situation if she'd kept him around.  
  
But would John have even wanted to stick around? He should. But the hard, honest truth is that he doesn't. He wants something else entirely. Something highly unattainable.  
  
"Drink up," Emily says, nudging the lager closer to John and winking. "This is your night." She scans the room of dancing bodies. "Lordy, there are beautiful men in here," she says while fanning herself theatrically with her hand. John doesn't want to disappoint her, so he chugs back all of his drink and slams it down onto the bar.  
  
Emily slaps John's knee. Hard. "Some more? Don't answer that. Mister!" she calls out for the bartender.  
  
They repeat this cycle six more times until John's laughing at everything and bobbing to the bass like an absolute fool. Emily's faffed off to god knows where and John gets pulled onto the dancefloor by a floppy-haired, tan, shirtless beefy bloke. He's not quite John's type but John's too far gone to care. He lets the man lead him through the crowd without a struggle. Once they decide on a spot, the beefy guy practically engulfs John, wrapping his arms tightly around John's waist, crushing his frontal body against John and swaying to the music.

John loses track of time.  
  
Soon, the man is leaning down to kiss John and John is gladly offering his lips, cannot wait, in fact, until someone else cuts in. The stranger fits himself snugly behind John and John is suddenly feeling fairly self-satisfied by the attention but, more so, claustrophobic.  He's about to put up a fight until he notices beefcake has stopped moving and has taken a step back. He looks terrified by whatever he sees behind John, then makes a run for it. John can't help but burst out laughing.  
  
John tries to turn around but the man behind him is strong and forces his head forward with two cold, large hands. How can anyone have cold hands in this sweltering room unless they just came in from outside? John doesn't actually care because it feels fantastic on his flushed face. John gets the message and his mystery dance partner releases his hands and slides them down his chest slowly, indulgently, all the way to his thighs. It feels so good to be touched like that and John presses and grinds back into his partner's groin, where he feels a distinct hardness, a plea for more contact.  
  
His new dance partner is very handsy and it's so intimate and strange since it's a complete stranger, but John is definitely enjoying the attention and will take anything he can get at this point. Besides, he probably isn't going to remember anything about tonight come tomorrow.  
  
They sway together to the music for what feels like ages but it's really only for one song. When the song changes, the stranger steps away. John feels bereft without those strong wandering hands, that long, sturdy body pressed into him. When he whips around there's no one there. "Fuck," John spits out and plows through the crowd to the bar. It's not fair. Just as he was starting to really enjoy himself, everything crashes and burns.

And where the hell is Emily?  
  
"John!" Emily shouts, on cue, waving from across the bar. John blinks lazily and reassess that, yes, that's definitely Emily. She says something to the woman next to her, laughs, then gets up and jogs over to him. Her breasts are spilling out of her dress. They weren't at the beginning of the night. John finds himself looking. How could he not?  
  
"I really need to use your cell. Mine died," she yells over the music.  
  
John tears his gaze from her chest, comprehends what she's saying a bit later than he should have and nods mechanically. It takes a bit of fumbling for him to procure his mobile and hand it over.  
  
"Actually, can you come with me outside? Not very keen on waitin' out there alone, you know!" 

* * *

  
Once they've fought their ways outside, Emily croons, "Thanks, baby." John can still feel the pounding of the bass in his ears. It's a bit nippy outside, so he zips up his jacket and shifts from one foot to the other to keep warm. "I'll just be a sec." She walks over to the wall and makes her call. John watches her go, nodding, tapping his foot to the beat of the muffled music.  
  
John looks to his left then feels someone grab his waist and press up behind him. "Oi!" he cries, ready to punch his captor. Turns out he doesn't need to attack, since the man's long frame is so very familiar.  
  
"Ooh," John says and laughs at himself. "It's you. How the hell did you find me? I can barely tell anyone apart in there," John slurs. He notices the erection again since it's conveniently pressed against his arse. "Mate, you know I could help you out with that, you know. Wouldn't mind 'tall."  
  
The man doesn't say anything, but John feels soft, wet lips press against his neck. John moans and unashamedly stretches his neck to the side for more. "This isn't-isn't decent. Out here. Ah, yeah, good, keep going." The man kisses the same spot, then bites down possessively. "Jesus, mate, I get it. You kind of want to have a fuck maybe. We don't need to do this out here. We can—um, well, we could do your place. You know it'd be nice if you let me, um, look at you. Don't give a fuck what you look like. Promise."  
  
John turns but the man has jumped behind him once again. "You're a funny one, huh," John says amusedly, wagging his finger in the air. "Okay. I'll play your game." John waits a moment, then turns around sharply. The man's dodged it again. John turns, turns, turns, and the man dodges being seen every time. John throws up his hands in surrender and laughs. "You're good. I give up. Now when do we get to fuck?" He hadn't meant to say that bit out loud. He was talking pretty loudly too. "Bollocks."  
  
Suddenly, John's sight is shrouded by a black cloth and he stumbles backwards, but the man catches him and keeps him grounded. "Woah. Okay. I guess we're still doing this, then. All right, yeah. Fine. Carry on!" The cloth is made snug around his head with a knot, and the stranger kisses his jaw chastely. He can't see but he feels the man towering over him and all John needs to do it reach up and pull off the cloth to see—  
  
The man grabs John's wrist warningly in its ascent toward the cloth. "Righto. Your rules," John says and laughs again, lowering his arm to his side. He'll go along with whatever the hell this is. John would be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued. The man squeezes John's shoulders and disappears. John gets the hint. He taps his foot again to the beat of the muffled bass inside the club as he waits. The next thing he knows he's being thrust into a car by the stranger and they're heading somewhere John doesn't know and John's heart is beating excitedly with the thrill of it all.  
  
During the ride, John shares a story with the stranger about the time he cooked human eyeballs because Sherlock had switched the baby onion jar with the eyeball jar. This leads to ramble about how magnificent Sherlock Holmes is, even though he's an uncaring bastard, even though he switched the baby onion jar with the eyeball jar. John doesn't stop talking about Sherlock until they pull to the stop and, after rustling of what John assumes is money, the stranger leads him out of the car, makes him wait as he opens his door, leads him up a bunch of steps which creak just the way 221b does.   
  
John's left standing awkwardly in a room. "Nice place you got here," John says and laughs. "When do I get to take this off?" The stranger removes John's jacket, gives him another kiss on the jaw, and leads him forward, again. "Oi," John says and lets himself be dragged. "Maybe now is a bad time to think that you're a serial killer?" John laughs at his own joke again. At least he thinks he's hilarious.  
  
John is pushed onto the bed and the stranger crawls atop him. John reaches up to feel the man's face. If he can't see, he'll feel his way to determine what the man looks like. He places his palm on a cheek, which has a sharp cut of cheekbone. The skin is silky smooth. John rubs his thumb against the lips, they feel lush and a bit wet. John pushes all thoughts out of his mind that this man may be Sherlock's other other brother. "Everything seems to be in place," John giggles and reaches up to the black cloth.  
  
The man pins both of John's wrists above his head. "Okay, okay. It's a kink, then? I get it. Fine with me, mate. We all have kinks." The man sits on John's stomach, leans down and takes John's mouth with his own. Their mouths move together messily at first until they get the hang of it and John feels tingly. The man releases one of John's arms and John palms the man's hardness underneath his trousers. The man makes a small noise. "You like that, yeah? It's the first sound I've heard from you all night. Can't wait to hear you scream."  
  
The man begins to unbutton John's shirt, thrusting it open to reveal his bare skin. The man dips his head and sucks at a nipple then his tongue flicks at the nub. "Yeah. Good. That's it," John grits out.  
  
John reaches out to grip the man's slender hips, pushes him back so that he's sitting directly on John's groin, then thrusts upward. "Rock for me," John growls. The man does so by undulating his hips forward and backwards over and over and John becomes harder than a rock. "Touch me," John orders. The man slides his hands up from John's waistband across his chest, the same way he did at the club. He touches John as if John's body is expensive silk. He massages John's stomach flesh with those wonderful hands then, with the heels of his palms, rubs at John's nipples ever-so-lightly, then kisses John's sternum. "I need to get out of thesefucking trousers fucking hell," John says, squirming underneath the man's weight. The man slaps John's hand away from his zip and instead places kisses up his chest reverently, up his neck, then mouth. It's more chaste than John would have expected for a blindfold-fetish-stranger-from-a-gay-club and John's squirming again. This is not usually how one-night stands go. It's usually just: bed, business, never see each other again.  
  
So. Suddenly, that this is all starting to feel a bit weird.  
  
John remains still in response to the man's incredibly intimate kisses he's generously placing on John's chest, neck and mouth, mouth, neck, chest. He blinks dumbly. His chest heaves. He's hard and it feels so good, the careful kisses, the touches. But it doesn't feel _right_. He waits for the apt moment, when the man is preoccupied somewhere by his stomach, then pulls off the black cloth in a swift motion.  
  
Holy fuck.  
  
He is not nearly drunk enough for this.  
  
There, looking up at him from beneath his lashes, is Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

  
  
Sherlock has the audacity to say, "I can explain," in that detached, monotone voice of his, and hell if John's going to listen to the explanation of the man who broke his heart then kidnapped him while he was three sheets to the wind only the day after he broke John's heart in order to have a fuck!  
  
John clumsily pushes Sherlock away and tries to scramble out of the bed without issue but, instead, he falls over the edge and hits the ground with a loud thump. He buries his face in his hands, which are sweaty and shaky, and yells into them, "Have you lost your mind?"  
  
The question could probably be posed to himself or Sherlock but its main purpose is for Sherlock.  
  
"John, you need to calm down."  
  
"I need to calm down," John mimics incredulously. Then he starts to laugh. The laughter spirals into something manic and doesn't stop until John feels a body pressing itself next to him. It feels nice, to have the warmth, to feel Sherlock's body, his lovely body, beside him again even if he doesn't know whether to scream at or kiss Sherlock at this very moment.  
  
Sherlock awkwardly straddles John's lap, takes John's face in between his hands, leans over and presses their foreheads together. "Listen to me. You need to listen."  
  
"When do I not listen to you?" John asks blearily. He does not try to push Sherlock away.  
  
"You can't leave. I don't want you to leave."  
  
"You made that pretty clear by fucking kidnapping me like…like…how did you do that? It's my fault. I came willingly. Fuck me. I'm an idiot. No, you're the idiot!"  
  
Sherlock kisses John's forehead. "Promise you'll stay."  
  
"Um I said I was staying but—"  
  
"Promise you will not go back to Emily's. I'll have someone pick up your things."  
  
"Emily?" he says. He'd forgotten all about her.  
  
"Yes. Emily was essential in helping me get you to come home, you know. She wants you to come back to me, too."  
  
"I..what? Are you jealous of her?" John shouts.  
  
"John. Don't be childish," Sherlock answers huffily.  
  
"I…Jesus fuck, Sherlock. I just wanted…I--I just needed some time to clear my head…clear my head of you. And here you are…now. Ruining everything!"  
  
"Don't."  
  
John hiccups. "Don't what? You like that word. Can you not be so cryptic? I can barely understand myself right now let alone you."  
  
Sherlock pushes John's shirt off his shoulders, helps him be rid of it completely. "Don't clear your head of me." Sherlock runs a finger up John's chest, as light as a feather, toward his bad shoulder. He stops before he's touching the scar. "Because I can't clear my head of you. Do you know how troubling that is for me? I want to be with you too, John. Are you hearing me?"  
  
John doesn't quite understand what's going on here. His heart is pounding and he wishes it would stop getting excited for no reason. "What are you trying to say?"  
  
Sherlock groans. "I'm asking you if you will you have me. Will you have me, John?"  
  
The room spins as John rewinds and replays what Sherlock had just said. It didn't make much sense. Sherlock Holmes did not want to be with him. He doesn't do relationships. Never will.  
  
He had captured John while he was drunk off his arse…to play mind games? John can't believe Sherlock is playing him like this just so he can have sex! John is angry now, gripping the cloth of Sherlock's hips a bit too roughly. An angry drunk Watson is never a good thing, so he'll have to avert a disaster by leaving.  
  
He pushes Sherlock hard, hard enough that he lands on his arse, his eyes wide. He hadn't expected that one, had he? Good. Conceited bastard.  
  
John grabs his discarded shirt with purpose, stands up and almost trips over his own feet as he stomps out the door and upstairs to his bedroom. He slams the door, falls onto the bed face first and is taken by sleep.

* * *

  
He wakes up with a pounding headache and a bout of nausea. Of course.  
  
"Good morning," a deep voice says and John jumps skittishly and unconsciously reaches for the drawer that contains his Sig Sauer. He calms down when he sees it's only Sherlock ( _only_ Sherlock?) sitting on the chair on the other side of the room, knees up to his chest like an overgrown child, an introspective look on his face. Sherlock juts his chin to indicate a location, "Paracetamol and water are there on your side table."  
  
"Christ, I almost shot you." John reaches for the Paracetamol and downs two tablets with a slug of water. "Were you there all night?"  
  
Sherlock considers. "Mm, almost."  
  
"Jeeeesus I feel like someone hit me with an anvil."  
  
"Seven lagers and two shots will do that."  
  
John closes his eyes, massaging his temples. "…how do you know how much I drank?" The night comes back to him like snippets of a long film, it's not everything, but it gives John the general idea of the plot. He remembers bits of Emily, dinner, the club, a mysterious stranger who turned out to be—  
  
"Sherlock," John begins slowly, drags out the name. He'll need to tread slowly, carefully here. He's not going to get angry. He does not feel up to the task of being angry. "Is it my alcohol addled brain imagining it or did you kidnap me last night?"  
  
When John opens his eyes, Sherlock's sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at John with a look of complacency. John hadn't even heard him move. "That's correct."  
  
John inhales sharply and clenches the sheets. Maybe he should have taken out his gun after all. "…and you thought that was okay."  
  
"How else would you have come back to me?" He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
Maybe he should call Lestrade now and turn himself in for the murder of Sherlock Holmes? It would be the polite thing to do. "Oh, I don't know! Maybe if you phoned me. Had a civil chat over the phone. Said 'sorry John, I was an idiot and had no regard for your feelings whatsoever. Please forgive me.' Maybe that would've bloody worked, you twat!" He shouldn't yell, but he couldn't help it. His head is throbbing.  
  
"You wouldn't have wanted to speak to me."  
  
Right, he had a point. _Still._ It wasn't quite socially acceptable to kidnap people in order to talk to them."Sherlock. All I wanted was space. Was that so much to ask?" John feels he's missing something here. Something important. Something that happened that night that he can't remember.  
  
"You don't need space you need me."  
  
John scoffs loudly. "You think you're the solution to my problem? You're the problem to my problem!"  
  
"How eloquent."  
  
"Sherlock!" John's grits out, rubbing his temples in defeated anguish.  
  
Sherlock frowns. "You never answered my question."  
  
"What damn question?" John barks.  
  
Sherlock looks at John neutrally. "Will you have me?"  
  
John takes a huge breath. It's not something that he needs to reflect on so he immediately says, "Yes" with a gust of exhale. "Wait. What?" John says, incredulous.

Sherlock grimaces, guilty.  "I had little time to think about it and I came to the conclusion that I was running from something important. I don't want to end what we have."  
  
John groans. "You mean you don't want to end our little agreement of having sex without the petty emotional attachment. Jesus Christ, Sher—"  
  
"No," Sherlock cuts in forcefully, "Ever since you let me penetrate you I was wary of the, um, developments. I was shutting down everything I felt for you. I didn't want to believe it." Sherlock's eyes have lost that unreadable barrier and glisten with sincerity. He's open and John can read him too well.  
  
John's not still drunk is he? "God. This is for real. We're actually having a conversation about your feelings. For me."  
  
"John," Sherlock warns. He's serious.  
  
He's actually serious.  
  
John feels infinitely calmer. Did he just have a headache? He feels fantastic.  
  
"Right. Wow. This is, um." John shakes his head in disbelief. "Wow. This almost makes up for the kidnapping stint. I mean, who the hell does that?"  
  
Sherlock smirks and climbs onto the bed so that he's sitting at John's hip. "You accept me, then."  
  
"Accept you?" John repeats hysterically, reaching out to brush a curl of hair away from Sherlock's forehead. "I want to engulf you."  
  
Sherlock says, practically growling, "Show me."  
  
"Gladly." John throws the duvet onto the floor and collides with Sherlock's mouth bruisingly. He licks at Sherlock's bottom lip and Sherlock opens his mouth, lets John in, and their tongues entwine desperately. John's hands slide up Sherlock's neck and rake through his hair as their mouths continue to mesh together. John steals an indulgent moan from Sherlock's lips.  
  
Sherlock's started removing his shirt so John helps and together it's removed in record time. John pulls his shirt over his head and Sherlock pushes him backwards and kisses up from the trail of light hair by his groin to his collarbone.  
  
"C'mere," John says, reaching up to pull the zip down Sherlock's trousers, pushes down his pants and his hard cock springs free. 

"Thank god," Sherlock huffs out.

"What?"

"I haven't touched myself for several hours now."

"For several--you must be a wizard, Sherlock. You've some restraint," John says in amused disbelief. 

  
Sherlock smirks, wiggles out of the trousers and straddles John's lap. John reaches out to take hold of Sherlock's cock and pumps it. Sherlock goes slack-jawed, he closes his eyes and lets out a tiny noise of satisfaction.  
  
"God," John says, watching Sherlock raptly, "Look at you. Could watch you like this all day."  
  
Sherlock leans down and kisses and sucks John's lips for a full minute, then pulls away breathlessly. "I cannot stop kissing you. It's an issue."  
  
John smiles, then realises how uncomfortable he feels and frowns. "Holy Christ I need to get out of these," John says, his mind zoning in on one thing—his hard and insistent cock. Sherlock gets on his knees to give John space to remove the trousers, then his pants. Sherlock rolls over onto his side and John follows, slotting himself behind. Sherlock raises his leg and John guides his cock into the space as Sherlock clamps down on John's cock so it's caught between his taut thighs. Sherlock squeezes lightly and it's John's turn to moan.  
  
"Oh my god," John says helplessly, as Sherlock rubs his thighs together. John bites down on his lip hard and lets Sherlock roll his cock between his strong thighs. He reaches over to grab Sherlock's cock, and strokes his gratitude. Sherlock makes a strangled noise at the touch. "God, Sherlock. Yes. Beautiful. You're beautiful. Have I ever told you that?"  
  
"I certainly don't mind you saying it," Sherlock says and John can just hear his smile. John presses a chaste kiss to his bony shoulder.  
  
"You wouldn't, would you," John says amicably.  
  
"I can't kiss you from this position. It's unfortunate," Sherlock pants, raising his thigh to free John. John lies flat on his back and Sherlock immediately presses his body flush against him so that their cocks crush together, snakes his hand between them and takes them both in hand.  
  
Sherlock kisses John again.  
  
"Fuck," John pants. Their chests heave together in unison. John's beginning to sweat.  
  
John thrusts his hips up and it feels like heaven not just because of the incredible sensation, but it feels right to be doing this and doing it with purpose. Sherlock is his now. He is Sherlock's.

"You're mine now," John articulates as he snaps his hips up again and Sherlock cries out and moves his hand frantically on their cocks.  
  
Sherlock's buries his face into John's shoulder and feels him kiss his collarbone. John grabs onto Sherlock's arse and squeezes, kneads the flesh. He pushes Sherlock against him, so, so close. He wishes it could, somehow, be closer.  
  
The only sound is their laboured breathing for awhile. This makes up for all the meaningless shags, the unspoken words.  
  
They will have to make up for all that had been lost.  
  
"John," Sherlock breathes as he shakes and comes all over John and himself. John follows quickly after and they just remain, slumped together. John wraps his arms around Sherlock, who keeps his face buried in the crook of John's neck. John wipes the cum that trickles down their bodies onto the sheets. He'll just have to put it in the laundry later. Sherlock eventually extricates himself and rolls off Joh n. John pushes himself up on his elbow and smiles down at Sherlock.  
  
"You didn't bruise my skin with your iron grip this time," John comments amusedly.  
  
"You didn't curse like a sailor. Soldier." Sherlock's smiling back.  
  
John laughs. "Things are different now."  
  
"Capital observation."  
  
John gives Sherlock a light smack on the arm. Sherlock looks gorgeous from this position, his curls fanned out in a halo, his cheeks flushed, his expression soft and relaxed. "We were idiots to think this wouldn't have happened. "  
  
Sherlock shrugs and pets John's waist gently. "I truly believed it wouldn't happen. This doesn't happen. It's never happened. To me."  
  
John holds out his hand, offering a handshake. "Congratulations, Sherlock Holmes. You've been chosen for a relationship. You need to shake my hand or we can't seal this relationship. Don't worry, this one hasn't got any bodily fluids on it."  
  
Sherlock chuckles. It's a wonderful, rare sound. Sherlock amuses John and takes John's hand, grips it tightly and gives it a satisfying pump. "It's sealed then."  
  
John's heart soars. "Welcome to the John Watson organisation. I am quite happy to have you."  
  
"And I, you," Sherlock says with a smile. He pulls John down, and they kiss.


End file.
